Come, Ye Thankful People, Come

Verse 1

Come, ye thankful people, come.

Raise the song of harvest home;

All is safely gathered in

Ere the winter storms begin;

God, our Maker, doth provide

That our wants are all supplied;

Come to God's own temple, come;

Raise the song of harvest home.

Verse 2

We ourselves are God's own field,

Fruit to His high praise to yield;

Wheat and tares together sown,

Unto joy or sorrow grown;

First the blade and then the ear,

Then the full corn shall appear;

Lord of harvest, grant that we

Wholesome grain and pure may be.

Verse 3

For the Lord our God shall come

And shall take His harvest home;

From His field shall purge away

All that doth offend that day;

Give His angels charge at last

In the fire the tares to cast,

But the fruitful ears to store

In His garner evermore.

Verse 4

Even so, Lord, quickly come

To Thy final harvest home;

Gather Thou Thy people in,

Free from sorrow, free from sin;

There, forever purified,

In Thy presence to abide;

Come with all Thine angels, come,

Raise the glorious harvest home.